


We're All Stories in the End

by Rose_of_Pollux



Category: Hogan's Heroes
Genre: Canon-typical peril, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 15:24:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5933238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rose_of_Pollux/pseuds/Rose_of_Pollux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you know that the truth will be hidden for many years to come, your alternative is to spin a tale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're All Stories in the End

"Of course there are people who don't believe in fairy tales—the fools."

Peter Newkirk had just arrived at the end of the tunnel to hear Louis LeBeau say these words.

"What conversation 'ave I walked into?" he inquired. It was then he noticed Andrew Carter standing beside the Frenchman, the both of then apparently waiting for him before departing on their mission. "Ah, never mind; I think I understand. Now it's all clear, considering who you're talking to."

"Oh, well we were just talking about—" Carter began.

"Fairy tales—I 'eard," Newkirk said, cutting the sergeant off. "Do I even want to know?"

"We were just discussing how some people stop believing in fairy tales once they reach a certain age," LeBeau explained.

"I'd expect this conversation from Andrew," the Englishman replied, as the three of them gathered their gear together. "But not from you. You mean to tell me that you believe in fairy tales?"

"You don't?" Carter queried.

Newkirk gave him a look.

"Right; you expect me to believe that someday, a good fairy is going to come flying into the barracks, wave a magic wand, and send us all to London?"

"That is not what he means, Pierre," LeBeau said. "It is not about the magic and monsters. It is about how the stories that we are told are based upon things that happened long ago, twisted by myth and legend. My grandparents used to tell me all sorts of stories about great warriors and brave maidens…"

"…The triumph of good over evil," Carter agreed.

"This is a conversation I don't think I can be a part of," Newkirk decided, rolling his eyes.

"You know, Pierre, in a way, our story is like a fairy tale," LeBeau pointed out. "The truth of what we are doing here cannot be known for a long, long time. All people can do is tell stories of knights from different lands forming an alliance to defeat the enemy within their own territory."

"Wouldn't that be something?" Carter mused. "We'll be the myths and the legends—and only we will know the truth." He slipped on the jacket of the enemy general, his transformation complete. "Okay; let's get out there. We've got an hour to get to town, and another hour to find out where that underground agent is being held in the Hausner Hof. Peter, you're my aide, and Louis—"

"Oui, I know; I am the driver, and I am not to say a single word," the Frenchman said, rolling his eyes.

"Well, it's that accent of yours," Carter said, obligingly explaining what LeBeau already knew. "You can't quite shake it, and that just isn't going to work—"

"At least you aren't stuck with the cooking again, Louis," Newkirk pointed out, cutting the sergeant off again. "Now let's get cracking before the guv'nor asks us all why we're still 'ere."

* * *

_Once upon a time in Bavaria, the three brave knights departed from the headquarters of their Resistance group—the Knight of America masquerading as an enemy commander. He glared at the enemy soldiers as they entered the inn._

_The Knight of England and the Knight of France watched as the Knight of America began to order the enemy around, demanding that the captured messenger be turned over to his custody._

_Countless times before, the Knight of America had pulled this deception with great success. This time, however, the enemy had been prepared by their most cunning foe—a blood-lusting warlord who dwelt in the darkest corners of the hamlet and commanded the cruelest of the enemy minions. The name of this man hovered constantly over the heads of the three brave knights, their fellow comrades, and even that of their own commander; though they had always gotten the better of this foe, there was always the fear that, one day, he would outwit them and claim every last one of their lives. And the stubborn reception that the Knight of America had received reeked of interference from Warlord Wolfgang._

_The Knight of France sensed the trouble right away as his comrade was met with resistance, despite the convincing act. As the Knight of America continued to bark orders as the Knight of England stood by to back up every word, the Knight of France chose the moment to slip past the enemy soldiers; most of them were too busy watching the exchange between their superiors and the Knight of America. The Knight of France's small stature allowed him to get past the rest unseen._

_The Knight of England had taught him the ways of invisibility—tricks that had kept him alive on the streets, and were keeping them all alive now as they lived and plotted in the enemy's realm. His comrade's words echoed in his mind as he traversed the corridors of the inn:_

Hug the shadows. Act like you belong there. Don't draw attention to yourself _._

_It was who they were: knights who dwelt in shadow and used trickery and underhanded means—but only for the greater good. The knights had been forced to slay on several occasions, but this was one quest that the Knight of France was hoping could be accomplished with no bloodshed._

_As the Knight of France made his way to the first floor, he saw one of the enemy warriors standing guard outside the door of one of the rooms. Common sense told him that the captured messenger would, undoubtedly, be held within there._

_The Knight of France knew that his knowledge of the local tongue was severely limited; as the other Knights had pointed out multiple times before, it was what prevented him from playing the role._

_Now, though, he would have to speak to save his life, as well as the lives of his comrades in the lobby._

" _The Warlord is down in the lobby with the General! He wishes to speak with you regarding the transfer of the prisoner to him!"_

_Baffled, the guard at the door obeyed, fearing the Warlord's wrath, but not before opening the door to speak to the guard inside. The Knight of France inwardly groaned; he had expected someone to be inside, but had hoped that his sixth sense would have been wrong._

_This was going to be slightly more complicated than he had hoped. Fortunately, he'd had the foresight to carry one of the Knight of America's smokescreen charges with him; their good commander had all but considered them to be standard equipment for whenever they departed on their missions. Quickly, the Knight of France lit one, opened the door of the room a couple of inches, and slipped the charge inside._

_Within seconds, the sounds of angry yelling, followed by a woman's scream filled the room. The Knight of France hid further down the corridor; up until that moment, he had been completely unaware that the captive messenger was a woman. He soon saw her as the guard opened the door, dragging her out of the room._

_The Knight of France then made his move; before the guard even knew what had happened, the knight had knocked him senseless with a savate kick. The messenger regarded him suspiciously at first, and tried to retreat before the knight seized her hand._

" _I am the Big Bad Wolf; I bring aid from Papa Bear."_

_The mention of Papa Bear was more than enough to gain her trust._

" _They have been holding me here for three days; I was not going to talk, so they sent for the Warlord."_

_The Knight of France nodded._

" _Then we must leave before he arrives."_

" _How?" the messenger asked. "They are all in the lobby; we will never get past them!"_

_The Knight merely gestured to the smoke-filled room._

" _Follow my lead," he instructed, drawing a handkerchief to cover his nose and mouth from the smoke._

_The Knight of France led the messenger out the window, using the drainpipe to slide down. Once again, he managed to work his tongue to speak the unfamiliar language of the realm to give the impression that he and his "wife" had escaped a fire in their room, and that the Fire Chief was desperately needed._

_As the crowd turned their attention to the fire inside, the Knight of France led the messenger to the car, concealing her in the vehicle's trunk before returning to the lobby and, for a third time, speaking the local tongue to announce to the Knight of America and the Knight of England that there was "trouble at headquarters" and that their presence was required right away._

_Alas, it was as they departed that the cruel Warlord arrived on the scene. The Knight of France was undaunted by him; for the fourth time that night, he used his silver tongue to slip past him and direct his attention to the "fire" within the inn._

_And 'twas so that the three knights returned to their commander, victorious on their quest._

* * *

"Wait a minute—wait a minute!"

LeBeau rolled his eyes as he looked up to see Newkirk looking over his shoulder as he wrote in his Red Cross-supplied diary. Having returned from their successful mission, with the Underground messenger now giving a full account of her tale to Hogan and Kinch, the Frenchman had proceeded to sit at one of the tables in the tunnel and write while the night's events were still fresh in his mind.

"Is this what you've been doing every time we get back from our missions? Write fairy tales about them?"

"Someone has to write the stories; otherwise, how can they be told?"

"Hey, that's pretty nifty!" Carter said, taking a look. "I oughta start doing that, too!"

"But what is all this nonsense about you bluffing 'ochstetter?" Newkirk asked, pointing to the passage. "We never dealt with 'im; the Fire Brigade arrived at the same time 'e did and distracted him long enough for us to scarper!"

"Ah, Pierre, everyone knows that fairy tales must have _some_ embellishment. Besides, I have earned it; the number of stories in here where I have written, 'The Knight of France cooked dinner for the griping Knight of England' has gotten to be a bit overwhelming."

"Well, I suppose you can live in a dream world if you want… 'ang on a minute. 'Griping Knight of England?!' Just what _else_ did you say about me in there?! Oh, shut up!" he added, as Carter started chuckling.

LeBeau quickly shut the book.

"That is a conversation for another time; we must get back to our bunks before Schultz comes in for a bed check."

"We're going to 'ave this conversation later, trust me," Newkirk vowed. "But I still don't understand why the two of you think you even need to do this."

"Think about it," Carter said. "What we're doing here… It's going to be classified top secret from now until the next twenty years—at least! At least we'll be ready to tell the world what happened when we're finally allowed to talk."

"And there is more to it than that," LeBeau added. "The war has to end someday. And when it does, I will be returning to my beautiful France to find an equally beautiful bride with whom I can start a family. I am sure you intend to go back to one of your… 'birds' in England, _oui_? What will you say, then, when your future children hear all the stories of the war heroes and are under the impression that all their father did was spend time in this place? You must tell them stories, Pierre. Tell them fantastical tales of the brave knights who outwitted their enemies time and again. And then, wait for the day when the truth is revealed and reap the rewards when you see their faces upon realizing that the stories were all true, and that their father was one of those brave knights."

LeBeau placed a hand on Newkirk's shoulder briefly before putting his diary in a strongbox and climbing back to the barracks. Carter gave him a knowing look before following, as well.

Newkirk pondered for a few moments before deciding that, perhaps, LeBeau and Carter really did know what they were saying after all.

And, perhaps… tomorrow would be the perfect time to dig up that old Red Cross diary he had so offhandedly thrown into the bottom of his footlocker.


End file.
